‘That old British class system again?’
‘Partly. It’s hard to figure Allen out. Mostly, he seems like a decent person gone wrong, but he also had a big chip on his shoulder all along. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what really motivated him.’
‘But you do have your killer.’
‘Yes — if he hasn’t done a bunk. But we’ve no proof yet.’
‘He knows you’re here, on to the girl?’
‘The whole village knows. We’ve got a man there.’
‘Well, then… What time’s your flight?’
‘Nine o’clock.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Christ, it’s six now. I’d better get back and pick up my stuff.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ Gregson said. ‘I’m off duty all day, and it can be a real hassle getting to the airport.’
‘Would you? That’s great.’
At the house, Banks packed his meagre belongings and the presents he had bought for his family, then left a thank-you note with the bottle of Scotch for Gerry. In a way, he felt sad to leave the house and neighbourhood that had become familiar to him over the past week: the sound of streetcars rattling by; the valley with its expressway and green slopes; the downtown skyline; the busy overflowing Chinese shops at Broadview and Gerrard.
The traffic along Lakeshore Boulevard to the airport turn-off wasn’t too heavy, and they made it with plenty of time to spare. The two policemen swapped addresses and invitations outside the departures area, then Gregson drove straight off home. Banks didn’t blame him. He’d always hated hanging around airports himself if he didn’t have a plane to catch.
After the queue at the check-in desk, the trip to the duty-free shop and the passage through security and immigration, it was almost time to board the plane. As they took off, Banks looked out of the window and saw the city lit up in the twilight below him: grids and figure eights of light as far as he could see in every direction except south, where he could pick out the curve of the bay and the matt silver-grey of Lake Ontario.
Once in the air, it was on with the Walkman — Kiri te Kanawa’s soaring arias seemed most appropriate this time — down the hatch with the Johnnie Walker and away with the food. A seasoned traveller already. This time even the movie was tolerable. A suspense thriller without the car chases and special effects that so often marred that type of film for Banks, it concentrated on the psychology of policeman and victim.
He slept for a while, managed to choke down the coffee and roll that came for breakfast, and looked out of the window to see the sun shining over Ireland.
It was nearly ten o’clock in the morning, local time, when he cleared customs and reclaimed his baggage. Among the crowd of people waiting to welcome friends and relatives stood Sandra, who threw her arms around him and gave him a long kiss.
‘I told Brian and Tracy they should come, too,’ she said, breaking away and picking up the duty-free bag, ‘but you know what they’re like about sleeping in on Sunday mornings.’
‘So it’s not that they don’t love me any more?’
‘Don’t be silly. They’ve missed you as much as I have. Almost.’
She kissed him again, and they set off for the car.
‘It’s a bloody maze, this place,’ Sandra complained, ‘and they really fleece you for parking. Then there’s roadworks everywhere on the way. They’re still working on Barton bridge, you know. It was misty too, high up in the Pennines. Oh, I am going on, aren’t I? I’m just so glad to see you. You must be tired.’
Banks stifled a yawn. ‘It’s five in the morning where I am. Where I was, rather. And I can’t sleep on planes. Anything interesting happen while I was away?’
Sandra frowned and hesitated. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ she said, loading the small case and the duty-free bag into the boot of the white Cortina, ‘at least not until we got home. Superintendent Gristhorpe called this morning just before I set off.’
‘On a Sunday morning? What about?’
‘He said he wants to see you as soon as you get back. I told him what state you’d be in. Oh, he apologized and all that, but you’ve still got to go in.’
‘What is it?’ Banks lit cigarettes for both Sandra and himself as she drove down the spiral ramp from the fourth floor of the multi-storey car park out into the sunlit day.
‘Bad news,’ she said. ‘There’s been another death in Swainshead.’
Part three:
The dreaming spires
12
‘Accidental death! Don’t you think that’s just a bit too bloody convenient?’
Sergeant Hatchley shrugged as if to imply that perhaps if Banks didn’t go gallivanting off to the New World such things might not happen. ‘Doctor says it could have been suicide,’ he said.
Banks ran his hand through his close-cropped black hair. It was twelve thirty. He was back in his office only an hour after arriving home, jet-lagged and disoriented. So far, he hadn’t even had a chance to admire his favourite view of the cobbled market square. The office was smoky and a cup of black coffee steamed on the desk. Superintendent Gristhorpe was keeping an appointment with the deputy chief constable, whose personal interest in events was a measure of the Colliers’ influence in the dale.
‘And where the hell was Richmond?’ Banks went on. ‘Wasn’t he supposed to be baby-sitting the lot of them while I was away?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where was he then?’
‘Asleep at the Greenocks’, I suppose. He could hardly invite himself to spend the night with the Colliers, could he?’
‘That’s not the point. He should have known something was wrong. Send him in.’
‘He’s just gone off duty, sir.’
‘Well, bloody well bring him back again!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hatchley stalked out of the office. Banks sighed, stubbed out his cigarette and walked over to the window. The cobbled market square was still there, a bit rain drenched, but still there. Tourists posed for photographs on the worn plinth of the ancient market cross. The church door stood open and Banks could hear the distant sound of the congregation singing ‘Jerusalem’.
So he was home. He’d just had time to say hello to Brian and Tracy, then he’d had to hurry down to the station. He hadn’t even given them their presents yet: a Blue Jays sweatshirt for Brian, the Illustrated History of Canada for his budding historian daughter, Tracy, and a study of the Group of Seven, with plenty of fine reproductions, for Sandra. They were still packed in his suitcase, which stood next to the duty-free cigarettes and Scotch in the hall.
Already Toronto was a memory with the quality of a dream — baseball, the community college, Kleinburg, Niagara Falls, the CN Tower, and the tall downtown buildings in black and white and gold. But Staff Sergeant Gregson, the Feathers crowd and Anne Ralston/Julie Culver weren’t a dream. They were what he had gone for. And now he’d come back to find Stephen Collier dead.
There was no suicide note; at least nobody had found one so far. According to Nicholas Collier, John Fletcher and Sam Greenock, who had all been with Stephen on his last night at the White Rose, Stephen, always highly strung and restless, had seemed excessively nervous. He had got much more drunk than usual. Finally, long beyond closing time, they had had to help him home. They had deposited Stephen fully clothed on his bed, then adjourned to Nicholas’s half of the house, where they had a nightcap. John and Sam then left, and Nicholas went to bed.
In the morning, when he went to see how his brother was, Nicholas had discovered him dead. The initial findings of Dr Glendenning indicated that he had died of suffocation. It appeared that Stephen Collier had vomited while under the influence of barbiturates and been unable to wake up. Such things often happened when pills and booze were mixed, Glendenning had said. All that had to be determined now was the amount of barbiturate in Stephen’s system, and that would have to wait until the post-mortem. He had suffered from insomnia for a long time and had a prescription for Nembutal.